


Under The Wing Of An Angel

by tattedlarents



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Bottom Louis, Childhood Trauma, Dom Louis, Dom/sub, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, Mental Instability, Mild Gore, Mild Kink, Mild Language, Near Death Experiences, Older Louis, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rimming, Sexual Content, Smut, Sub Harry, Top Harry, Top Louis, Underage Drinking, Underage Harry, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattedlarents/pseuds/tattedlarents
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a traumatized rape victim who witnessed his own mother's murder. Louis is the detective who gets assigned to his case. Things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A story about a mentally unstable, young rape victim and the single person who is his one and only chance at putting an end to his suffering, and who also happens to maybe be the love of his life.

_My mother is dead._

 

That's the only thought that's been echoing in Harry's head for the past hour. He has always known it, but it's like the words had pushed their way from the very back of his brain and shoved past his other thoughts, forcing themselves to the center of Harry's attention and screaming at him,  _she's dead, my mother is dead._

 

The words swirl through his mind like a toxic black fog, polluting his thoughts and creeping slowly through his veins, their poisoning effect working its way through his body. The symptoms of a panic attack are always the same for Harry, and he notices the familiar sweat dampening his shaking palms, the tightening of his lungs in his chest. The fear rising in his throat like bile—or a scream, he can't tell. His vision is blurring, the only clear thing that he can focus on is the deafening whisper in his ears,  _she's dead._

 

Harry doesn't remember collapsing to the floor, but he suddenly feels the cool tile beneath his sweating hands, and on the bare skin of his knee that his torn up black jeans expose. The sound of his labored breath accompanies the voice in his head, and soon a helpless feeling in his gut begins to grow. There's nothing he can do to stop it once it starts. Finally, short breathed and wide eyed in a heap on the kitchen floor, Harry gives in to the fear. 

 

 

 

-

 

 

It's the third time this week—Harry counted—that he has phoned the police station. His feet, snug in a pair of warm pink fleece socks, shuffle against the dark hardwood floor of his sitting room as he sits curled up in his favorite chair, wearing his favorite knit sweater, holding the receiving end of the phone patiently against his ear. The complete silence of the apartment is interrupted by the series of harsh rings on the other end of the line. He stares blankly at the wall until someone picks up. 

 

"Holmes Chapel Police Station, this is Officer Bruntee from the Homicide Department, can I help you?"

 

The voice is deep and monotone, this guy sounds bored every time Harry calls. 

 

"Um, hi, this is Harry Styles...again," Harry says, clearing his throat.

 

He hears an exasperated sigh on the other end and chooses to ignore it.

 

"Have you found anything yet? On my case, I mean," he continues. 

 

Its quiet on both sides for a moment, just like it always is the other times. Harry likes to think that in this brief pause, Officer Bruntee is searching in his file or consulting other officers for any information they have gathered on the case yet. Over time, though, he has begun to doubt that possibility. The silence ends with another long sigh from the other end. 

 

"Not yet, son, I'm sorry," Bruntee says, feigning disappointment And empathy for Harry's sake. 

 

Harry's heart drops in his chest, and he feels his face fall a little, along with his hopes. He waits a second for Bruntee to say something else, but there's nothing. 

 

"O-okay," he says. "Just...call me if you get anything, please?" he adds, sounding embarrassingly desperate. 

 

"Sure thing, kid," Officer Bruntee answers gruffly. You have a good day." 

 

And then there's the dial tone. Harry lifts the phone away from his ear, staring at it with disbelief. For some reason, he continues to cling on to the idea that maybe just  _one_ time when he calls, it'll be different. He'll hear, "yes, actually, we did find something" instead of the same answer he has gotten for the past three years. 

 

Three  _fucking years,_ and still the only thing they have to say to Harry is "nothing yet". For Christ's sake, Harry had watched his mother die as he was being  _raped._ He suffers everyday because of what happened to him and his family, both mentally and physically. Ever since that night three years ago, Harry has struggled with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It seems like every day he continues living with that same question torturing his mind, pondering who would have a motive strong enough to do such things to him and his mother, the worse his condition becomes. His panic attacks happen frequently; sometimes he'll go out to the market for some groceries, and one moment he's pushing the cart down the baking aisle, the next he's in a hospital bed, with no one but the nurses there to see him. Probably the worst part of Harry's situation is that he is all alone. He has no family left to love him, no friends that would ever sacrifice their reputation to be friends with a depressed, freak boy like Harry. His father had left his family while Harry's mother was pregnant with him, so Harry had never gotten the chance to meet the man. Sometimes he wishes that he had a father around. It would've been different if he were there for Harry and his mother; she would probably still be alive, and Harry would be a normal kid. And _god,_ Harry would absolutely love that. To have an actual family, to be a regular boy. He can imagine it in his head, his mother dancing around the kitchen, adorned in a flowery apron, a content smile crinkling her aging features. His father would walk into the room, press a loving kiss to her forehead, and then take Harry to to the front yard and kick a football around together, father and son. Maybe he would have a brother, or a sister, even. And people who could protect him and love him. That's all he really wants. He wants to feel safe for once, valued. Loved. 

 

Harry decides that he's going to go into the police station tomorrow himself. He's tired of waiting. He doesn't know what it's going to do for him, but needs an answer, so he's going to get one. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to the police station.

Harry's eyes snap open.

 

He wakes with the sheets clinging restrictingly to his damp, bare skin, a speeding pulse, and a prominent, sickening sense of fear in his gut. Cowering back into his pillows instinctively, Harry glances quickly around his dimly lit bedroom, his heart lodged in his throat. _He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe_. Panic spreads like a wildfire through his body, burning in his stomach and setting each of his senses on high alert. Harry can feel himself teetering dangerously on the edge—all it would take is one thing to set him off, one thing and he'd completely lose control of his body, giving in to the fear that seems to be sucking him further into its dark depths with every passing second.

 

The room is dark, and Harry can't see, and it's driving him absolutely insane. How is he supposed to know if something bad were to happen? What would he do if someone or something sprang out of the shadows, or leapt from his closet, or through his window, or maybe just straight through his door and got him? But he doesn't have the slightest clue of his surroundings. He feels completely and utterly defenseless. Harry has to calm down, soon. He can feel himself beginning to slip into a familiar, yet dreaded state of paranoia, inching closer and closer to the risk of another panic attack. This always ends the same way if he doesn't stop it soon enough. So Harry focuses _hard_ , so hard that his temples begin to throb and his jaw starts to ache from clenching his teeth together. He screws his eyes shut and pours every single ounce of concentration into evening his breath, steadying his heartbeat. His knuckles are almost as white as the sheet that they are clutched tightly around, each and every one of his muscles tensed. It takes a lot of effort—more than one would normally need to exert—but slowly, Harry is able to mostly quiet his mind and regain control over his body. He opens his eyes.

 

The first thing Harry does is practically leap out of his bed and yank the curtains that hang in front of his bedroom window aside, almost tearing them off of the wall entirely. He externally sighs in relief as the pale, yellow rays of sunlight beam through the glass, filling the room with theit pastel color and warming Harry's chilled skin. It's a great feeling to have sunlight—to Harry, it's almost like a safety blanket. It chases away the darkness. Which is a good thing, because Harry is afraid of the dark. As stupid as it sounds to admit, since Harry is eighteen already, it's always been a true statement. He thinks it has something to do with that one night three years ago. The night of his mother's murder. He guesses it must be just another thing with his PTSD, but sometimes it's kind of hard for him to think toon hard about.

 

The rest of his morning goes quite smoothly—or, as smoothly as a morning could go for Harry. Despite the scalding temperatures in the apartment that could convince someone that it is actually summertime, the weather outside the window in his kitchen is the exact opposite. He looks down to see lampposts, tree limbs, cars' windshields, the grass, everything covered in February's sparkling silver frost. So Harry puts on his warmest clothes, even though his skin is practically melting off as he adds layers. He wears his tight black jeans and one of his knit sweaters, this one's color a soft baby blue. He thinks that it's probably his favorite. He slips his pink fleece socks on his bare feet, and his worn out boots follow them. To keep extra warm, he wraps a black scarf around his neck and shrugs on his trench coat. Before he heads out the front door of his apartment, phone, keys, and wallet somehow all clutched between the fingers of one hand, he grabs an apple for breakfast.

 

-

 

Harry's brain doesn't quite register where he is going until he is already there. He's sitting there in his car in the parking lot of the police station, his cheeks burning from how high he has the heat set, and completely second guessing himself. He looks around the lot at all of the shiny, expensive cars, and at the unwelcoming and intimidatingly tall building. His self confidence has dropped to the floor by now. This isn't where he belongs, not at all. This place is for old people, and business-y and official, and that's not Harry. Harry is sweet and harmless and sad, and belongs curled up on his favorite chair in his sitting room, wearing one of his soft sweaters and sipping from a teacup and being pathetically depressed—doing anything but this. This is scary.

 

Harry knows that he's being stubborn and that he's really just making up excuses to not go into the police station, trying to convince himself to go with his instinct and drive straight back home, but he can't help it. He doesn't want to. Which makes leaving the warm, promising safety of his car and stepping into the biting, cold air that much harder. Because he knows that he has to, or else he'll go home feeling painfully remorseful and like an unsuccessful human being. Which he would be, if he doesn't do anything about this.

 

He quickens his step, partially so that he doesn't have to stay in the freezing weather any longer than he has to, and also so he doesn't change his mind. Harry doesn't even think as he flings open the big glass double doors of the entrance, because if he did, he would be back in his car already. So he just does it, and steps inside the place and looks around. And immediately regrets it. He must've just landed himself straight into the main office area of the police station, because there are desks arranged around the giant, fluorescent-lit room like a maze, each one overflowing with papers and files and bins full of more papers and files. And the people,  _oh god,_ Harry thinks he will faint right there just by the way they have all stopped doing their tasks just to turn and look directly at him as he stands awkwardly and idly in the middle of the entrance. They're all wearing expensive looking business suits and dresses and shiny shoes that make Harry look like a lost, homeless boy. His heart is racing and his face burning, he is _so incredibly embarrassed_. A part of him begins to worry that he might have a panic attack right on the doorstep of the police station.

 

But Harry walks, he actually does it. As much as he wishes he could just vanish into thin air, Harry ignores the fancy police people and all of the doubtful thoughts in his head and walks straight up to the front desk.

 

The stocky, middle aged, balding man sitting behind the desk seems to be the only person there who is completely clueless to his appearance; he keeps his stare trained on his compute screen the entire time. Harry's speaking now before he even knows what he is doing.

 

"U-um, hi, 'm Harry Styles."

 

Harry's own eyes are wide, and the man's droopy gaze slowly lifts up from his computer screen to look at him. He doesn't say anything. Harry can feel his palms dampening. Not a good sign.

 

"I wanted to, um, check on how m—the case is going."

 

The man blinks at him and one of his bushy eyebrows raise, wrinkling one side of his forehead. Harry wishes he hadn't forced himself to come in there. Especially after he hears the man's voice.

 

"I'll check up on it," he states bluntly, sounding completely bored and lifeless.

 

The man is Officer Bruntee from the phone. It's obvious to Harry; he recognizes the man's beyond uninterested tone. Now, he's feeling embarrassed, because Officer Bruntee has been on the receiving end of most of Harry's desperate calls to the station, and the guy is probably so fed up with him by now. But despite his lack of enthusiasm, Bruntee picks up the phone by his hand and punches in a few digits with his meaty pointer finger, holding the device up to his ear. He stares at the wall for a second, until someone must've answered.

 

"Hey, it's Paul," he starts, letting out a long exhale. "D'you, by chance, have anything new on the Styles' case? You know, the one with..."

 

Officer Bruntee trails off mid-sentence, his gaze flitting over to Harry and stopping himself before he says anything else, realizing that Harry might be sensitive to the topic. It's a few more seconds, and then Bruntee's thick eyebrows suddenly bunch up in the middle and his droopy eyes widen.

 

"Oh...yeah, I wasn't aware of that," he says, glancing quickly over at Harry again. "I'll make a call to Tomlinson, I don't think he's working on anything at the moment."

 

Bruntee removes the phone from his ear and presses the end button, then tapping in a few more numbers, Harry seemingly forgotten as he stands before the desk, his hands curled up in nervous balls at his sides, his chest noticeably heaving in a way that would probably be concerning if anyone was really paying attention to him. He thinks about asking the officer what is going on, but he is already greeting the next person on the phone.

 

"Are you on a project, Tomlinson?" He asks abruptly.

 

Harry finds it rude that he didn't even say hello. This Bruntee guy isn't making a good impression, so far, but he's really the least of Harry's worries. Right now, he's mostly just worried about passing out in the middle of the police station.

 

There's a brief pause, and the toe of Officer Bruntee's boot is banging annoyingly against the desk.

 

"I'm assigning you to the Styles' case," he says, his voice sounding a bit rushed, and he is looking anywhere but in Harry's general direction.

 

 _What_?

 

"Yeah, I'll bring the file over in a minute, and introduce you to Harry. Alright, bye."

 

Harry can't move. Bruntee has hung up the phone now, and is stepping out from behind the desk, speaking words that might be important or that might mean nothing, but Harry wouldn't know, because he can't hear them. The only thing that he can hear is his own brain, which has slowly, but surely processed the information that it had just taken in and is telling Harry that his case hasn't even been investigated since it happened three years ago. And Harry knows, at once, that even though he doesn't want to believe it, his gut feeling is right. Because why else would Bruntee say, "I'm assigning you to the Styles' case", if no one was already looking into it? If no one yet had bothered to even take the slightest interest in the case, just for the sake of a grieving teenage boy and his dead mother? If his case had been ignored for the past _three fucking years_.

 

"C'mon, kid," Bruntee is saying, walking down a hallway and expecting Harry to follow.

 

The words are distant and hard to make out and Harry can't feel his legs and he doesn't even know how, but his booted-feet eventually step, one in front of the other, and trail behind Bruntee as he weaves in and out of hallways and desks. Harry is trying to find something—anything that could be a distraction to him right now, so he can focus on that instead of the awful, spreading sick feeling in his stomach. He pays extra attention to how the back of Bruntee's navy blue collared shirt isn't tucked in all the way and how it looks like he has a duck tail, and how the old skinny lady at one of the desks has a colorful felt flower pinned to her jacket.

 

There is a hand on Harry's shoulder now, pushing him into a glass-walled room with a big desk in the corner and a sitting place with a few chairs and a coffee table in front of it. His legs seem especially long and clumsy now, and he briefly sways unstably before barely regaining his balance. He can hear Bruntee's bored voice telling him to stay in the room and introduce himself to some detective, but Harry doesn't want to meet anybody. He just wants to go home and be angry and sad and cry for him and his mother.

 

"Room's this way," someone says from behind him, and Harry freezes.

 

The voice has a playful tone, and after a second, Harry realizes that the person was only teasing him. But that _voice_ ; something about it makes Harry's cloudy and scrambled mind suddenly become crystal clear, like he was a blind man who could not see until he heard this magnificent sound. It's a male's voice, but it's high and tinkly like bells, and at the same time, is as smooth as silk rolling off of the person's tongue. And it snaps Harry right out of his daze.

 

He turns around, each and every single one of his senses now switched on to high alert, and when he sees this man, it feels like he is looking at a grand piece of art work or a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower or the ocean, or something incredibly amazing and breathtaking. And probably because he  _is_  looking at something amazing and breathtaking.

 

His face is the perfect mix of sharp angles and soft curves, his cheekbones high and his eyebrows curved—thin, pink lips and a very prominent, almost scientifically _perfect_ bone structure. A light smattering of facial hair grows along his jawline and roughens his appearance. And his skin, _oh god_ , it glows a sunny, golden color, effortlessly tan, something that Harry both envies and admires. But it just looks so so soft—probably softer than his best knit sweater—and touchable, and Harry just wants to run his hands over every inch of it. This man just looks so bright and sarcastic and sweet and gorgeous and Harry can tell his by looking at him that he has a wonderful personality that automatically attracts people to him. And Harry can definitely feel the pull.

 

But his eyes must be the best part. They are literally the ocean. Or the sky. Or the clearest, purest thing in the entire world. Nothing can even compare to their color, their vibrant, beautiful blue that Harry wishes he could drown in. And maybe he has drowned in them, because he is just standing there in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at this man who now has his hand extended and is mouthing words with his pretty lips, but Harry only hears the last part.

 

"—Detective Tomlinson."

 

Harry blinks and quickly takes a step forward, attaching their hands together in a normal, friendly greeting shake. But only it doesn't seem that way for Harry, because he can feel how smooth and firm the man's—Detective Tomlinson's—hand is wrapped in his own. They both let go at the same time. Detective Tomlinson steps back, a warm, soft smile on his face that gleams in his eyes. Harry gapes.

 

"Ehm, you can have a seat then," the man says, taking quick little steps over to the sitting chairs and adjusting them in a way that somehow doesn't move them at all.

 

Harry gets a glimpse of Detective Tomlinson's body then; of his muscular thighs and thick bum, curved spine and beautiful shoulders. Harry didn't even know shoulders could be beautiful, but these ones are.

 

Then, Harry does sit in one of the chairs, careful not to stumble as he does so, his boots flat on the floor and long legs folding up. The detective takes a seat after him, crossing his dainty ankles which are bare under the rolled-up cuff of his jeans.

 

"Oh, here we are," he mumbles lightly, standing out of the chair and taking a step past Harry's chair and towards the door, where Officer Bruntee has appeared with a manilla file in his hands, which Detective Tomlinson takes before saying thank you and returning to his seat.

 

Harry watches him as he moves, almost entranced. When Detective Tomlinson is sitting in his chair across from Harry, his ankles crossed again, he sets the file neatly on his lap and places his hands on top of it, his ice blue eyes flicking up to Harry, one brow raised in curiosity.

 

"I'm sorry, you  _are_ Harry, aren't you?" He asks, almost carefully, like he doesn't want to offend Harry.

 

Blinking rapidly, Harry nods, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment and guilt as he realizes that he hadn't even introduced himself to this man.

 

"Y-yeah, sorry," he quickly stutters, pulling his legs in closer to his body and wringing his hands anxiously.

 

Detective Tomlinson seems to notice his nervous reaction, but doesn't say anything, only smiling warmly at him.

 

"'S alright," he says casually. "You know, you can relax, if you'd like. I don't bite."

 

Harry's face flushes a deeper color, if that is even possible. He finds it incredibly embarrassing that Detective Tomlinson can sense how tense and jumpy he is feeling. He looks down at his lap, but self consciously makes a point to concentrate on slowing his breathing and normalizing his heartbeat in his chest. He probably looks like some freak.

 

It takes a little bit of effort before he is able to glance up again. Detective Tomlinson. He's got his eyes all squinty at Harry, and at first, Harry is sad because he can't see the bright blue through his eyelids, but then he analyzes the detective's studious stare, and he feels really humiliated. Because of course, he's going to stare at Harry like he's some weird zoo animal. But maybe Harry's just being a naive teenager when he thinks he sees something hidden behind Detective Tomlinson's long look, something that looks quite familiar...could it possibly be interest or curiosity?

 

Detective Tomlinson clears his throat quietly and slips his fingers under the file's top folder, his gaze back on the papers in his lap.

 

"So, I have your case file here in this folder; it contains all of the evidence, pictures, witness's statements, and data analysis that was collected from the crime scene and later investigation," he says, sounding very professional—almost too much so for Harry's comprehension.

 

"We could go over it, and I could show you and talk you through everything we have here, or we can skip that part if it makes you uncomfortable."

 

Detective Tomlinson's eyes flick back up to meet Harry's this time, stunningly blue and _gentle_. Harry doesn't know what to choose. Yeah, he did beg and pester the police department for three years to get this information, but now that it's available to him, he isn't really sure. The fact that he can just reach out and grab it and instantly know anything and everything there is to know about that one night, after all of that time he has spent waiting and sealing the wounds from his past, is the part that scares him the most. That he could just _know_ it.

 

Harry's clothes are suddenly too hot and heavy on his skin, and a bead of cool sweat slides down his spine. He fights off a shiver and slowly removes his trench coat, tugging the scarf from his neck after and placing it on the armrest of the chair along with his coat. He can feel the detective's eyes on him the whole time, but his stare doesn't make Harry feel pressured. Just observed—like all of his attention is focused only on Harry. It sends a small thrill through his veins.

 

He can't find it in himself to look back up yet, but he still answers, drawing in a long breath first.

 

"I would like to know, i-if that's okay, Detective Tomlinson," he replies shakily, his fingers fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater.

 

Harry looks up now. The detective is smiling comfortingly down at the file, even though it is intended for Harry. He shifts slightly in his seat, and his fingers separate the folder, revealing the stack of papers between it. Harry's heart rate accelerates.

 

"Of course, Harry," Detective Tomlinson says softly. "You can call me Louis, if you'd like. Detective Tomlinson is a bit of a drag to pronounce, isn't it?"

 

Harry nods robotically, repeating the name over and over in his head. _Louis Louis Louis Louis Louis_. It sounds like a very soft and gentle and caring name, but also sassy and important at the same time. Harry thinks it would feel good on his mouth to say that particular name.

 

"I'll just start with the basics first, yeah?" Louis suggests, his fingers flipping open the folder.

 

Harry nods some more, his tongue flicking across his lips nervously. He can't seem to keep his limbs still—his foot twitches back and forth, his fingers tugging restlessly at his sweater sleeve. He has to physically restrain himself from bouncing his leg up and down in anxious anticipation. But then, Louis is looking at him again, just a quick glance, but his bright blue eyes somehow have a calming effect on Harry, and he feels himself beginning to visibly relax. He's nervous and scared and part of him doesn't even want to know, but now he is really listening. He watches Louis' teeth catch his lower lip as he shuffles through the stack of papers, and after what seems to be an infinite moment, he begins to read.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (holy shit 800+ hits ily all)

Harry inhales deeply and holds his breath in his lungs.

 

 

 

"March tenth, two thousand and eleven, around two thirty seven in the morning, a pair of men broke into your home through the back door using a crowbar. Sounds correct so far?"

 

 

 

Harry nods, letting out a shaky breath and adjusting himself in his chair. He feels his entire body tighten, as if it is anticipating something bad to happen, bracing itself. It makes him nervous. He silently makes an effort to relax himself; uncurls his hands, taps the toes of his boots together once. He doesn't lift his gaze up from his feet after that.

 

 

 

"The two men proceeded to look around your house, seeming to have no interest in anything, other than the cabinet under the kitchen sink which they caused minimal damage to before taking the hidden safety funds from it."

 

 

 

"After they pocketed the money, at approximately two fifty, your mother heard the noise and came down the stairs."

 

 

 

Louis looks up at the same time that Harry does. His beautiful blue eyes and careful expression are almost enough to keep the tears from beginning to form behind Harry's eyes, but it happens anyway. He tries so hard not to think of it—not to remember, but hearing the sequence of events out loud again for the first time in forever brings back painful images from that night. Harry desperately attempts to form a wall between the bad thoughts and his memory, wishing he could just block them out and focus on Louis' face instead. But oh, god, he must be crying now, because in a second, Louis has closed the folder and is standing up from his chair across from Harry's, walking over to his desk and placing the file on the corner. And Harry doesn't know yet if it's a good thing or a bad thing that Louis got rid of the folder. He just sniffs a few times, pathetically wiping his wet eyes with balled up fists like a baby and pulling his legs in closer to his body. Childish is what he feels like. Pitiful. He would find the way he is acting completely embarrassing if he wasn't too confused and frightened to think.

 

 

 

He can see Louis coming over to his chair now, walking in his little quick, tight steps until he reaches Harry. Louis kneels in front of the side of the chair and looks up at Harry, whose sweater sleeves are damp with tears and scrunched up in his hands, which are held closely to his chest. His head is foggy and his brain feels like it is detached from his body; he can't think clearly. The only thing he can do is try to focus on not having a mental breakdown. He can tell that he's close to loosing it, though, because he recognizes the familiar, panicky sensation rising in his throat, stirring around toxically in his stomach. And he doesn't even realize it when he's gone into hyperventilation, his eyes screwed shut and his upper body heaving with each inhale and exhale he wheezes out. He can't stop it now—the fear has taken over and he has completely no control over himself whatsoever. He can feel it with each breath, the thick, infinite cloud of darkness beginning to spread infectiously through every part of his body, seeming to make his lungs constrict and his head spin like he just dismounted a roller coaster.

 

 

 

But through the deafening commotion in his head, Harry can faintly hear _that voice_. It cuts straight through the fog like a knife through butter, echoing loudly in Harry's ears like the words were shouted, even though they weren't. He can sense something—a hand—gripping his shoulder, and another resting on his neck, two fingers prodding his pulse point. there's a vague feeling of the puff of quick, warm breath on his arm.

 

 

 

_"Harry? Harry, calm down, it's okay."_

 

 

 

The voice sounds firm, like it is trying to soothe Harry, but he can faintly hear a frantic undertone mixing with the words, rushing their speech. The hand on his neck removes itself, and seconds later Harry can feel it laying on one of his own clenched hands. Fingers are fumbling against his knuckles, gently coaxing his fists apart, pulling finger by finger until Harry's hand is finally splayed out wide, captured against his own chest by the other person's. He can feel the rapid thumping of his own heartbeat.

 

 

 

_"Harry, look at me. Open your eyes, love, look at me."_

 

 

 

And Harry does. He barely manages to, but he slowly opens his eyelids, looking directly into crystal clear, soft, ocean blue eyes. And he's okay. His breathing is already slowing to a normal pace and he's only just staring at Louis, at his wide, worried eyes, at his wet, raw and bitten lips. His hand still is over Harry's, pressing it against his chest, his skin rough, but the way he's touching Harry makes it feel unbearably soft. Harry's other hand, that is clawed onto the armrest begins to relax and he un-bunches his sweater from between his fingers, leaving the end of the sleeves crumpled and damp with his tears. His lips are as red as cherries, his cheeks still wet, eyes feeling puffy. A few stray curls stick to his face, but he's too wrapped up in the fact that Louis hasn't moved away from him yet to care. He can feel Louis' quick, sweet smelling breath puffing against his face, as if he were exhausted just from watching Harry struggle. Or maybe he was just really worried. But Harry decides that it doesn't really matter, because either way, Louis made him _okay_. And he doesn't even know how; he's never been able to stop a panic attack once it starts. And yet, some random, extremely attractive detective with beautiful blue eyes and great legs who Harry has only met minutes prior, has somehow saved him with a single look and a few calming words.

 

 

 

Now, Louis hand falls from Harry's, causing a random, dull jab of disappointment in his heart at the loss of contact, even though Louis' other hand still grips his shoulder. He has no clue why he feels so connected to this man already, or why he should even care if he touches his hand or not. He guesses that it's just one of his bad habits; getting very emotionally attached to people after short periods of time. It's probably not something he should continue doing, but the way Louis' skin feels like silk and how his lips curve up in a obvious accent as he speaks makes it extremely difficult not to want to be attached to him. And Louis is so _soft_ with him, and maybe it's because he's just trying to calm Harry down, and maybe Harry is just overthinking it, but he likes to.

 

 

 

"My god, Harry, you scared the living sh—stuff out of me," Louis breathes, his voice sugary sweet in Harry's ears.

 

 

 

Harry watches him with wide eyes as he shakes his head a few times, then brings his hand up to run through his hair. He looks up at Harry through his eyelashes, beautiful without even trying. His eyes are almost sad, his expression giving away his concern.

 

 

 

"A-are you okay, I mean? Was it something I said that upset you?"

 

He seems genuinely sorry, and Harry feels so guilty that he's blaming it on himself. Blaming himself for Harry's freakishness. Harry sniffs once, shaking his head rapidly, his curls bouncing around his cheeks.

 

 

 

"N-no, I just, um...t-thank you," Harry stammers, glancing only once up into Louis' softening blue eyes.

 

 

 

He hears a long sigh, and then the hand on his shoulder slides down to rest on his knee, the palm of Louis' hand warm against the patch of bare skin that Harry's ripped jeans expose.

 

 

 

"Don't thank me, Harry," Louis says, almost exasperatedly. "Is it alright for me to ask you something about what just happened?"

 

 

 

Harry hesitates, but nods once, staring down at Louis' hand on his knee.

 

 

 

"Hey, look at me so I know it's okay."

 

 

 

The softness of Louis' voice is what compels Harry to look up into those clear blue eyes. And god, the way his eyebrows are pulled together towards the center of his forehead and how his lips purse together into a little heart makes it seem _just for a second_ like Louis might actually care about not hurting Harry's feelings. Waiting in anticipation now, Harry draws in an anxious breath and holds it.

 

 

"Is that...is that a normal thing to happen?" Louis asks, and he phrases it so very tenderly, like he's afraid that the way he says it could scare the young boy away. But really, for all Harry cares, he could be saying "your hair looks like brown dumpster shit" in the sweetest voice possible and Harry would probably still look at him with bush baby eyes.

 

 

 

And now Harry's snapped out from where he was swimming in Louis' ocean eyes and back into reality, when he feels gentle fingers slightly press into his knee. Harry blinks slowly, lets out a shaky breath. If he really is going to tell Louis the truth, he will probably have to kiss goodbye to his chances of Detective Louis Tomlinson ever even looking once at him. Because in all seriousness, Harry knows he's not a bad guy. He couldn't possibly be; he's too depressed and lonely to have any effort or any one to be a bitch to. Plus, Harry kind of skipped that whole bratty, god-forbid-I-should-do-what-you-say-mom stage that usually occurs for most kids entering their high-and-mighty preteen ages. So he figures that if he maybe didn't have a disorder and did have a mom, he would have some friends at the very least, a boyfriend if he's really pushing his luck. Because Harry didn't choose to be alone, but he just naturally is. And this time, he's really gotten a sense of what he's missing out on. And it's _Louis_ , with his blue eyes, and there's  _Louis'_  hands on his skin, and  _Louis'_  pretty voice and pretty face asking him to say it.

 

 

 

So how could he not? Harry's fingers return to fasten around his damp, wrinkled sweater sleeve again, and he can feel his throat closing up, as if it is physically begging him not to talk, as if it knows that he's just going to end up freaking Louis out. But he swallows around the tightness and does it, anyway.

 

 

 

"Yeah, I, um..." Harry starts quietly. His voice comes out low and husky at first, and he clears his throat embarrassedly.

 

 

 

"I have, uh...e-ever since my mum..."

 

 

 

Harry's eyes are stinging now, and he has to shake his head, blinking to keep the moisture away. After a second, he continues, feeling completely like he should rethink his decision to tell Louis about his disorder.

 

 

 

"Ever since then, it's been hard." And after he finishes, it's quiet, which is the part that Harry was dreading would happen, becuase it means he has to say more, and now he really, really doesn't want to. And he knows it's a ridiculous thing to get so worked up about, but he can't help it, because he knows how things like this always go. In a few hours, he'll be sitting in his favorite living room chair by the window, his feet curled up in another pair of fuzzy socks and his hands wrapped around another hot mug of tea, except this time, there'll be tears falling down his cheeks and an ache in his chest because he will have closed off _another_ person out from his life and will be alone forever after that. It's inevitable.

 

 

 

He tries not to panic, sucking air in deeply through his nose and letting it out slowly. But he panics anyway when he feels the pad of Louis' thumb push gently into the skin of his knee where his jeans are ripped. And it seems like such an intimate gesture to him, and he _has_ to say it now.

 

 

 

"I, um, I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." Harry stammers out with a shaky breath.

 

 

 

He's convinced that a stampede of wild horses are rampaging in his chest. The only thing he can hear besides his own awkward sniffling is silence for a moment, and the crazy horses stomping in his chest. And at first, he's worried that Louis is freaked out, like everyone else was when they found out. But also, it then occurs to him that Louis wouldn't really care anyway. Harry is only a lonely, depressed eighteen year old, while Louis is an attractive man, probably in his mid twenties, who must have a fiancé and most likely earns a nice living and has plenty of friends and family to love and to love him back. So what would Harry be to him, anyway?

 

 

 

But now, Louis head is hanging down, and Harry can hear him let out a long breath. His hand falls from Harry's shoulder to run over his face.

 

 

 

"God, I'm sorry," Louis sighs, and Harry's eyebrows pull together in confusion.

 

 

 

"I don't think this is such a great idea," Louis continues, and Harry's heart drops.

 

 

 

"What?" Louis looks back up at Harry, his blue eyes seeming to have darkened, and filled with a new, pitiful guilt.

 

 

 

"I mean, are you sure you want me to bring all of this back? I-I don't want to do something that might make you...uncomfortable."

 

 

 

Something in Harry's chest sparks at this, and he freaks out inside. For a frightening second, he thinks he might cry again. Apparently, he must've looked like pathetically scared, sad boy, because Louis' hand is shooting back out to rest on Harry's shoulder, and his thumb starts rubbing gently back and forth over the arm of Harry's sweater. The touch is gentle; it has Harry fighting a shiver.

 

 

 

"Hey, are you okay?" And his voice is so soft that Harry just wishes he could touch it. And when Louis ducks his head down so that Harry has to look him straight in the face, his eyes are just as gentle. And Louis' eyes and his words and his hands make Harry feel so pampered, like he is being babied and pitied and taken care of, but he doesn't mind, this time, because it's something about _Louis_ —this man that he literally just met—that makes it okay. So Harry nods and lets himself stares directly into Louis' eyes.

 

 

 

"Yeah. I'm sorry," he croaks out, his throat feeling itchy and worn out.

 

 

 

"No, no, it's okay, Harry. It's not your fault," Louis is saying now, so certainly that Harry almost believes him.

 

 

 

And now, Louis is stood up, and Harry feels a little emptier than he had just seconds ago. He looks up at the man's godlike figure, watching as his thick eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he blinks. Harry foolishly wonders how he landed a job as a detective and not a model.

 

 

 

"That's enough for today, yeah?" He says quietly.

 

 

 

Harry doesn't know whether it is or not; whether he wants to know more, or know nothing at all. So he just nods and stands up out of the chair, his legs unfolding from their bent position, causing his knees to crack uncomfortably. He enjoys how he is know just barely taller than Louis, and can discreetly peer down at him and see how he looks from a different angle. Although he doesn't want to leave—he can't stand the thought of being left alone again—he knows it's only appropriate that he does go. So he reaches for his trench coat hanging on the back of the chair, his fingers gripped so tight around the fabric that his knuckles strain over his bones. He and Louis exchange silent stares for a brief moment. Harry's toes curl in his boots.

 

 

 

"W-when ca—should I come back?" Harry asks timidly, his fingers toying with the zipper of his coat.

 

 

 

"Here, let me get you my card," Louis mutters, turning around and picking a small white business card from his desk.

 

 

 

His hand extends out to Harry, and Harry takes the card, slipping it into his pocket and trying not to think about how nice Louis' hands are.

 

 

 

"You can call me whenever you need it."

 

 

 

A faint and unwanted blush blooms on Harry's face, and he attempts to hide it by looking down at his shoes, but most likely fails.

 

 

 

"O-okay."

 

 

 

And Harry's going to leave now, he's going to leave Detective Tomlinson's office. The only problem is, he really, really doesn't want to. How will he survive any amount of time not staring into Louis' clear, blue eyes? How will he be able to feel safe and calm without Louis' delicate hands to soothe him? Is it strange for Harry to feel so immediately attached to someone, and attached to the sense of security that they give him?

 

 

 

He looks up, locking eyes with that pair of dark blue ones that he so badly wishes he could stare at forever, for a brief, but seemingly important moment.

 

 

 

"Thank you," he hears himself mumble quietly, his gaze flicking back down to stare at his ratty boots.

 

 

 

"It's nothing to thank me for," Louis says earnestly, and the fact that he thinks that makes Harry feel guilty inside, but he doesn't say anything.

 

 

"I'll be hearing from you soon, yeah?" Louis asks, idly prodding the carpet with the toe of his Vans.

 

 

 

"Promise you'll give me a ring whenever you need anything," he insists. He tilts his head up slightly to look up at Harry, the tips of his eyelashes pushed up against his arched eyebrows.

 

 

 

Harry sniffs and nods, even though he doubts he would ever have the balls to call Louis, even if he did need to listen to that honey-sweet voice in his ears again. Even if he needed to hear the way that voice says his name in the most perfectly careful way.

 

 

 

"Goodbye, Louis."

 

 

 

Harry has a hard time pushing the words out of his throat, but he slowly does. After he says the last word, he finally looks back up from his shoes into blue eyes, only to look back down at his feet as they walk him straight out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked so hard and long on this chapter so I hope it's okay :/

That night, Harry ends up sitting in his chair in front of the window, his hands hugged around a hot mug, his feet curled up under his bum as he sips from his tea and stares out the window tiredly. The air in his apartment is cold, but his baby blue sweater isn't. Outside of his window, snowflakes so thin that they resemble powdered sugar fall from the darkening, purplish sky, accumulating onto the roofs of cars and window sills like fluffy frosting. Sometimes, Harry likes winter. It's cold in the winter, so he can bundle up in warm clothes and thick blankets and soft scarves, and feel safe and protected within his layers upon layers of clothing. But other times, the cold seems to be bone deep. It's like a permanent chill in his blood that not even hot beverages and warm socks can thaw. And often, with this coldness, comes bad memories and a seemingly inescapable depression.

 

 

That's the bad part about winter, the part that Harry is experiencing right now. He is tired, but his mind is searching around for things to keep him occupied and his eyelids from drooping closed. There's too much to think about, and too much of it are things that he doesn't want to think about, which is really frustrating. He ends up reflecting on his entire life, and even though he tries to skip over the bad parts, he fails. So he has these awful images swirling around in his brain like a never ending horror movie that he just can't stop watching.

 

 

But then, he sees a pair of blue eyes and careful, delicate hands, and his body melts like candle wax. His heart, which before, was thumping meaninglessly with depression in his chest, has come to life with a sense of longing, for those hands and eyes in particular. If that sweet voice would ring in his ears again, even if it was saying, "You're a freak", Harry believes that all his problems would just vanish, like the sun has now done into the horizon.

 

 

His hands are so tired that they almost drop the mug as he places it onto the table beside his chair. It's a little worrying how just thinking about his life can be so physically draining. Already, his eyes are beginning to flutter closed, and his breath puffs out of his nose in long sighs. He would really enjoy the fluffy, warm comfort of his bed right now, but his limbs feel leaden and his brain has already shut down, as if his conscious had simply pointed a remote at it and pressed power. Harry's not going to move one inch from the chair, and he knows it, so he just gives up and folds up on himself, falling into a troubled sleep.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The morning is all light blue and white colors outside the window, which means that it must already be late into the afternoon. Harry wakes up with an aching pain in his neck from sleeping with his head lolled sideways onto the armrest of the chair. He lifts his arm to rub at his sleepy eyes. His whole body feels like it's in a tub of molasses; everything is moving in slow motion. His joints pop and muscles tighten as he uncurls his legs out from under him, and after that he promises to himself to never sleep like this again.

 

 

His mind is only partially awake as he's grabbing his half-empty mug and padding into the kitchen in his fuzzy socks to place it into the empty sink. He'll wash it later; he is usually so orderly with his apartment keep-up that washes each of his dishes immediately after he uses them, but he's tired this morning, and a lot of things are on his mind. He goes to the fridge next, scratching his stomach as he takes in its bare contents. He'll have to go to the grocery today, as _totally fun_ as that sounds. So he settles for an orange from the fruit bowl on the table.

 

 

Before Harry leaves, he takes a short shower and throws on a worn, black jumper he got from an ACDC concert and a pair of black jeans. He also changes his socks into another pair of fuzzy socks (obsession?). Outside the window, snow coats the surface of everything in sight, but none falls from the pale sky. He decides it won't be too cold, so he pulls only a jean jacket on over his sweatshirt and slides on a pair of converse. Snatching his keys and wallet from the shelf by the door, Harry is out.

 

 

On the ride to the grocery, Harry doesn't really think of much. He supposes that there is much that he should think about, like the case or maybe what he's going to do with his day, but it's still early in the morning, and he's feeling a bit exhausted.

 

 

Before he knows it, he's wiggling into a parking spot close to the doors of the small store, because who wants to walk, like, half a mile to get from the back of the parking lot to the entrance? Not Harry. He steps out of his car and shuts the door behind him, his cheeks and fingertips immediately reddening with protest to the low temperatures. It doesn't take him long to get inside the warm safety of the store, to his relief. His frozen hands struggle to pick out everything he needs; slim milk, ramen noodles, granola bars, Oreo cookies, all that good stuff. Harry likes to think of himself as a healthy eater, even though his grocery list would probably disagree. He's tall, and actually a bit skinny, with limbs and fingers that seemed endless. He has a good amount of lanky, long muscles in his forearms and on his torso that he doesn't even know how they got there, because he doesn't work out. Maybe it's just because he doesn't really eat that much.

 

 

After Harry checks out and carries his lame three bags out to his car, he just sits in the driver's seat with the hot air blasting on his burning cheeks and the engine running. What will he even do today? When will something exciting happen?

 

 

Harry ends up going straight back to his apartment. And as he's driving there, with his lousy three bags of depressing groceries sitting in the empty passenger seat, is when he comes to think of what a sad life he has been leading. He wonders how many days he can spend his time sitting in his lonely chair by the window and going to his part time job as a barista at BackRoads Café that he really doesn't even like before he completely loses his mind. Everything is always the same, a never ending, repetitive cycle that makes him dizzy. What he needs is something _new_ ; something that can break him out of his routine, out of his protective shell of social anxiety, and and out of sadness in general. He needs to win the lottery, or buy a cat, or maybe even just meet a friend. Find his family. His _dad_. There has to be something out there that can just wipe his memory; make him forget about his past, make him forget about his disorder, make him forget about the loneliness and the pain. Because lately, it all has become too much to bear.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He arrives back at his house around mid afternoon. The first thing he does is neatly remove his shoes on the mat by his door and hang his trench coat on the back of a kitchen stool. Then, he pads across the hardwood floors to the pantry and refrigerator, where he carefully unloads his (seven total) groceries. After that, though, he just stands idly in the middle of his kitchen, not sure what do do next. Next, as in the following few seconds, and also next as in the rest of his life. He settles on making himself a blueberry tea.

 

 

By dinner time, the remainder of Harry's day has been completely unsuccessful. Scrolling through tumblr while watching Rachel Ray and finishing two cups of tea have been the main focuses of his evening. For dinner, he has ramen noodles.

 

 

As he mindlessly stares at the TV, Harry can't help but think about his visit to the police station a few days ago. To him, it seems crazy that his case is actually progressing. Someone is assigned to his case who is official, and responsible, and who knows what they're doing (and who is also very gorgeous, but that doesn't concern the matter). The point is, they might actually catch the person who ripped his family apart like it were a sheet of paper and ruined his entire life. They could lock that murderer, that rapist in jail forever. For Harry, there would be no more nights of laying awake in his bed, heavy-breathed and tangled in the bedsheets for countless hours with a mind that relentlessly reminds him of horrid images from that one night three years ago, on which he was raped and his mother was killed. He doesn't want to jinx it, but part of him can't help but swell with hopes that if his antagonist was put to justice, he might even be able to overcome his disorder. Maybe someday he could finally live a normal life, one that includes lots of love and friendship, and definitely not a lot of loneliness.

 

 

As he thinks this over, he realizes with both awe and nervousness how greatly his life could potentially change because of this. Basically his entire future could be lying in the hands of the case--in the hands of Detective Louis Tomlinson. And it's not that he doesn't trust the detective, he's just extremely terrified. So, completely scared of living like this any longer. He isn't sure if he can physically bear one more day fearing the dark and his past and everything in between. Every day he goes on like this is another that he can slowly feel himself breaking; like there's a puncture in the center of his heart that slowly begins to crack and split until the only thing left of his entire body will soon be small, shattered fragments of the lonely boy he used to be. He's coming close to the edge of something bad, but he isn't sure what exactly. It's really scary.

 

 

Harry goes to bed earlier that night than he has for the first time in a while. Until he falls asleep, burrowed and protected underneath his soft, feather duvet shield, he has a brief conscious dream. It's about a pair of eyes, in a beautiful shade of blue, and soft hands and a pretty voice; a person that he realizes he is depending on for his life.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

_It's dark. That's the only thing Harry is able to see as his eyes snap open and scan the room. There's a scent, though, that he vaguely registers as vanilla cake candles and new paper. It smells like home._

 

 

_Harry's eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, and he immediately recognizes his surroundings; the ACDC poster tacked to the opposite wall, the countless number of black articles of clothing strewn across the floor, the plain, navy blue blankets wrapped around his legs. He's in his old room. Before he can wrap his mind around the entire situation, there's a short banging noise from a floor down._

 

 

 _He knows this all too well. He knows what is happening now, and what is going to happen next. He knows that just a few steps down the stairs, there are two men breaking in through the back door of his house. He knows that by now, they have found the secret emergency stash of money in one of the kitchen cabinets, behind the china cups. And he knows when he hears an abrupt scream, that his mother is being held at knifepoint by one man while the other demands her most valuable possessions and money in a hushed voice. And Harry can_ see _himself bursting out of his bedroom and cautiously toeing down the stairs, as if he were a bystander witnessing his own every move, watching himself. Except the Harry that he is watching doesn't know the things he does. He doesn't know what is in store for him next, how his life will forever change within the next moment._

 

 

_The horror shows on his face when he reaches the bottom step and sees his mother, with glittering tears streaming down her cheeks and eerie, gray shadows cast across her face in the light of the moon. The metal of the knife glints under her neck._

 

 

 _There's a tense, but very quick moment of complete, anticipated silence, as Harry looks between his mother and the two men. One of them, stocky and broad shouldered wearing black from head to toe, stands only a few feet away, beside a coffee table thats door seems to have been yanked ajar, its contents strewn around on the hardwood floor. The man's large hands are drawn up by his sides alertly, and he stares straight at the frightened, wide-eyed sixteen year old. Harry can almost feel his heart beating against his ribcage, the fear crawling its way up his gut like bile. He doesn't dare move even one muscle, his lungs almost bursting in his chest as he holds his breath like it's his last. Not one person speaks, not one person does_ anything. _Harry looks at his mother. He sees how the corner of her lips quake in fear, how the never-wavering warmth in her eyes has changed into an afraid desperation that strikes the very center of Harry's heart with the most unimaginable feeling._

 

 

_"Mum," is the last word his mother ever hears him say._

 

 

_The man lunges forward. Harry screams._

 

 

 

 -

 

 

 

He wakes up to his own cries. His throat is closing around itself with each inhale, his breath coming out in wet wheezes. Hot tears roll down his cheeks and over his lips, a salty taste on his tongue. His eyes search frantically in the dark for something that he neither knows or finds. The blankets feel like a bunch of firm hands wrapping and tangling around his limbs, forbidding any movement. In his chest, his heart beat matches the speed of a humming bird's wings. He is scared, _so scared_ , and it's worse than it's ever been.

 

 

Harry doesn't recall a time when he's ever felt a fear so great that it consumes his entire being, paralyzingly him from the inside out. He can't move, he can't think, he doesn't know what else to do but sit there and be absolutely terrified. Maybe, it's like he's experiencing a panic attack, except he isn't passing out. He's witnessing all of this pain and horror while he's awake, and God, if he could only just close his eyes

 

 

and make it disappear, he would. But he can't. His mind isn't functioning right. Through his eyes, it looks like the room is closing in on him, slowly, but definitely engulfing him in its blackness. Without a thought, Harry's leaping from his bed, wrenching himself out of his blankets in a panic and bounding over to the light switch in one stride. When the light fills each and every corner of the room, Harry still doesn't move, his hand glued to the switch. His pulse hammers in the roof of his mouth where his tongue is tensely pressed. He won't look around, he can't. His eyelids screw shut and he allows the remaining tears to slide down his face, collecting and dripping off his chin.

 

 

Harry needs something right now. He needs it so badly that he can feel an ache in his bones and a frantic, searching sensation in his gut that reminds him how he can't live another minute without it. Except he can't figure out what it is, and it's driving him insane. Maybe it's a friend, maybe it's a beer, maybe it's his mother. He remembers that he doesn't have a friend or a mother, and is struck with a whole another feeling of pain.

 

 

He goes to the only thing he can count on, slowly, cautiously—as if there were laser sensors cross crossing the hallway—toeing into the kitchen. He flicks on every light as he goes. Once he retrieves a beer from the refrigerator, his shaking fingers clenched tightly around the cold, sweating neck of the bottle, he realizes what he needs.

 

 

Harry needs a person. Not just any person, though, someone who can make him feel okay again. He has to hear someone tell him soothing words, like that things are going to be fine, that he's fine. Someone who can convince him that nothing is wrong, and create a distraction from his painful reality. He doesn't want the cold, empty glass of alcohol beneath his fingertips, he wants the warmth of somebody's skin and the beat of their heart. He needs someone who can make him feel _safe_. Safe...

 

 

Harry doesn't know what he's thinking, or if he's even thinking at all, as he sets his empty beer on the table a little too loudly and walks over to the coat hanger by the door. He's searching around in his coat pocket, and his fingers close around a small, thick square of paper. The digits are already in his phone, a ringing in his ear as he waits, before he realizes what he's doing.

 

 

"My god," he hears from the other line, like the voice is far away from the microphone. There's a shuffling noise for a second, but Harry easily recognizes _that voice_.

 

 

"Hello? Yes?"

 

 

Harry almost stops breathing. The voice, even though it sounds irritated, cuts its way straight through the silence and straight into Harry's heart. And now, he's completely frozen, and he seems to have forgotten exactly what to say, or why he even decided to make this phone call in the first place.

 

 

"Is anyone—"

 

 

"Hi," Harry blurts, and if there were a cliff nearby, he would definitely drive off of it. "I-it's Harry," he quickly adds, trying uselessly for a recovery.

 

 

He can almost hear the surprise hidden in the short quietness that follows. But when the person speaks again, this time, his tone immediately softens.

 

 

"Harry? Is everything alright?"

 

 

And no, nothing is alright because Harry is embarrassed and sad and alone and so so scared. But yes, everything is alright because he's got this beautiful voice in his ear and someone is actually asking him if he's okay. The thing is, though, Harry's so lost. He feels like a timid, stray puppy who has wandered pitifully to the first door that seems the least bit inviting. He feels like someone who has fallen off a boat in the middle of the ocean, frantically splashing around in the vast, menacing waters and searching the pitch black sky for absolutely nothing. And it's different. Scary. Throughout his entire life, he's always been alone, but never once has he felt lost.

 

 

He only realizes that he's begun to sob into the phone when a voice, so sweet that it must come from a mouth full of cavities, speaks to him.

 

 

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" The detective asks him, concern smoothing out the edges of his tone.

 

 

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

 

 

Harry is now wholeheartedly, yet still, pathetically crying into the phone, his throat burning and his mouth making sad gasping noises. He wishes he could stop bawling so he could be more embarrassed, or maybe so he could hang up. Or at least say something. So he tries to collect his scattered pieces together and gather himself and possibly get some decent words out. It doesn't really work.

 

 

"I'm so s-sorry, I..." He pauses to get a moment of air. "I d-don't really know you, but I didn't k-know w-who else—It's just—"

 

 

Louis interrupts him again, and he is eternally grateful for that.

 

 

"Calm down, Harry, love," says Louis, so gently that the words seem to trickle from the receiver like honey. "Try and breathe, alright?"

 

 

Harry listens to him as best as he can. He finds a bit of calmness to cling onto, and does try and breathe, even though it sounds like he is being punched in the lungs and it feels like his throat is being rubbed with sandpaper. It takes a long moment for him to catch his breath, with nothing but silence on the other end, until he can hear his own quiet, slow inhales and small sniffs. There are beads of tears forming on his phone screen, and a few curls have gotten caught on his wet lips, but he hardly notices, or cares.

 

 

"I-I'm good, I'm okay," Harry finally says, breaking the silence.

 

 

"Yeah?"

 

 

"Yeah."

 

 

He lets out a long exhale, and pretends that all of his problems go out with it.

 

 

"You can tell me, if you'd like. I promise, I'm only mean sometimes."

 

 

And maybe Harry should laugh, or maybe he should cry again, but he doesn't. He just talks, even though his voice feels so slow and thick coming out, making it a thousand times harder to get the words out.

 

 

"It's...it's r-really scary sometimes, you know, like--have you ever gotten that feeling where it's like...if you don't do something, then stuff might get worse, only you don't know what you're supposed to do or what happens if you don't?"

 

 

Harry doesn't even know what he's saying, himself. The words that are just pouring nonstop out of his mouth form into a jumbled mess of nonsense, and his life sucks because he probably sounds like a crybaby teenager with emotional issues and no one will ever take him seriously. Which worries him, because he may have scared Louis—the one person who's bothered to speak more than two words to Harry—off, and that would be so very inconvenient, because Harry is relying fairly heavily on him for closure with the case (and maybe also because Louis is the only person who has been able to settle the his complex and chaotic mind by only using his pretty voice and gentle hands and talent for picking out just the right words to say). He is considering just muttering an apology and hanging up before he embarrasses himself further, when the brief pause on the other line is interrupted by a soft "go on". And he can't stop himself from continuing.

 

 

"It's just...I know that I've always been, like...alone. But I wish that I had something that can...fix it. Like, make me forget, and stuff. Is that—is that crazy?"

 

 

Harry sniffs. He's probably insane. It's probably crazy.

 

 

"That's not crazy."

 

 

And wow, okay. Louis doesn't think that it's crazy. That puts Harry's mind to rest a little, but what doesn't is that Louis sounds almost sad when he says it. Is Harry making him sad? Maybe he shouldn't be unloading all of his tears and petty, teenage problems on Louis. Why didn't Harry stop to consider that the detective might have problems on his own? Hell, he's even working on Harry's case, the last thing he should be doing is working on Harry's emotions, too. Louis could be having financial issues, or conflicts in his love life, or maybe his own emotional crisis to situate. And now, Harry feels really, really guilty for just dialing Louis' number without a thought, waking him up at midnight on a Friday evening just to sob like a toddler into the phone and spout off about how sad his life is.

 

 

After Louis says those words, there's a brief quietness between the two of them. As this brief quietness slowly threatens to escalate to an almost awkward silence, Harry hurries to apologize.

 

 

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have called you like this, especially this late," he rushes on. "I should just g—"

 

 

"No, it's really alright, Harry," Louis interjects, calm and reassuring. "If you'd like to come by my office tomorrow afternoon, I'll be there."

 

 

Harry isn't sure if he's hearing right, or even breathing. Louis is inviting him to his office. _Louis is inviting him to his office_. Is that weird? Louis could be like, a serial killer or something, for all Harry knows. He should probably be putting his "stranger danger" instincts to work right now, but he just has this  _feeling_. He has absolutely no idea who the detective is, or anything about him, but somehow, Harry has already developed a strong trust for Louis that grows with every word he hears him speak. It sounds weird to have an emotional attachment like the one Harry has to someone he only just met less than a week ago, and hasn't seen since.

 

 

But it doesn't feel weird. It started the moment he saw those blue eyes, the ones that were clear and blue and so certain, like they held every answer to every question and every solution to every problem inside them. The second he heard that voice that could calm even the most furious of storms. When those fingers rested upon his hands, his chest, his shoulders, their touch gentle and soft enough to distract Harry from his own thoughts. Louis was the first person who had ever known the exact words to say and just how to act to calm Harry down and stop his panic attack. That, in itself, is big. For Harry, at least. Because no one had ever really done that for him; taken care of him like that, except for maybe the people at the emergency room. And it's crazy, because Louis is just a stranger. But Harry can't help but be a scared, emotional, needy teenager.

 

 

"A-are you sure that would be okay?"

 

 

His voice burns the roof of his throat by now, and he sounds like a chain smoker, which is quite embarrassing. But the thing that's important is that _Louis invited him to his office_.

 

 

"Yeah, of course," says the voice, soft and certain. "Stop by any time."

 

 

And that's basically how it ends, with Harry's heart beating quickly and his body feeling warm and gooey inside. He doesn't know what Louis makes of the whole situation, but for now, he'll just worry about how he feels himself. Which is quite okay. Maybe even good. And that's all it has to be right now. It's normal, and if feels nice.

 

 

That night, when Harry finally gives in to the downward pull of his eyelids, he doesn't have a nightmare. He doesn't have a dream at all, or even have a single thought about tomorrow or the past or the future or anything for that matter. And that's nice, too.


End file.
